I do not profess to be a writer; therefore, I must search through my thoughts painstakingly. I am given the world to write about, yet I can think only of my mother. I do not think of the happier times; instead, it is misery that I can clearly envision. My mother was the very fiber of our family. I was there while diabetes weakened her. Her sight was all but gone, and her strides were reduced to a stutter. Yes, I can narrate this tragedy because I can remember the smallest details. I can retell the words that were spoken, and the sights that were seen. It has come to life, so now I will write.
             The pen flows easily, and many words have been written. The writings are a scribble since they try to keep up with my thoughts. I will not worry about structure until I empty my head.
             The ink grows darker on the paper now, for with every word the passion grows. The differences in emotions start to ricochet in my head, and they are certain to collide. I must stop this. Why would I choose to write of such an awful event? I must be able to choose another topic. My mind has become vacant of any new ideas, and I am obsessed with this one story alone.
             What kind of trickery is this? You steal my thoughts, and I cannot stop you? You are mere paper and ink. I can crumble you with one hand, and I can toss you aside. This I know to be true as I look to the overflowing wastebasket. You cannot exist without me, yet you are the one in control. How is it you wield such a power?
             My notebook is filling; although, something is lacking. The words you prescribe do not feel their intent. You would have me tell of our vigil, and my father's pain. These thoughts are private; they are not to be shared. Could I allow them to be scrutinized as if they had no meaning? You subdue my anger when I recall that "Quack". The agony in the decision whether or not to resuscitate a loved one; how can you possibly feel this? Even as I scratch and mar
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